


If I can ease one life the aching

by saavik13



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Caring, Mentorship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saavik13/pseuds/saavik13
Summary: Sometimes all it takes is knowing someone cares.





	If I can ease one life the aching

**Author's Note:**

> Not In Vain  
> by Emily Dickinson
> 
> If I can stop one heart from breaking,  
> I shall not live in vain:  
> If I can ease one life the aching,  
> Or cool one pain,  
> Or help one fainting robin  
> Unto his nest again,  
> I shall not live in vain.

Jenkins has lived a long time and there’s a few things he’s learned about people along the way. 

Jones is, at his core, not a thief. He steals because that’s the only way he thinks he’ll ever have anything, that no one could ever possibly just give him something. It’s not that he questions his own worth, in an odd twist of psychology Jenkins is positive that Jones truly does believe as much of himself as it is humanly possible to do without being an actual clinical narcissist. Which despite the evidence, Jenkins is certain the boy is not. What the boy is, is convinced that no one else will ever recognize his greatness. But he’s determined to be great anyway, for himself if no one else.

There’s a part of Jenkins that remembers that feeling. Remembers being the bastard son, always trying and failing in the eyes of everyone around him. Remembers watching his mother die, and his grandfather shove him out of the grounds as if he was nothing more than garbage. Remembers being cold and hungry and frightened, and alone. Remembers what it was to be tolerated by those who should care, pushed and shoved about like unwanted baggage. He also remembers what it’s like to suddenly not be alone, to be around people that don’t care about where he came from but only how good his sword arm was. He’d have done anything for them – he did in fact. He became the knight of legend, the greatest of them, the Grail Knight. He became immortal for them, watched them all die, and then he’s gone on lingering for them, to finish what they started.

Ezekiel Jones was still figuring out what he’ll do for his new family, that this is a new family. He’s realized he’s not alone, but the true depth of that not-aloneness is still untrustworthy to the boy. He’s come to find that he will do anything for them, but he doesn’t yet trust them to return that loyalty even in the smallest measure. He needs to learn they will. 

It’s not grand gestures that will cure that distrust. Jenkins remembers that feeling too. The fear that his comrades were only acting out of duty or seeking glory. The resentment that ate at his heart whenever they came to his aid, sure in soul that they were somehow going to mock him. It had taken years for Arthur to break down his walls, to really convince him of his place at Camelot, and even though in the end he’d felt secure, even now centuries later, an occasional pang of that uncertainty would clutch him at the oddest of moments. Arthur always said the way he’d stuck to the Code, so rigid in it, wasn’t because he believed it more than the other knights, it was because it was all he had. Two bastard sons, building a new world together… Jenkins missed his old friend.

There was a great deal of Arthur in the boy. Flynn might have Excalibur, might have in a way fulfilled the once and future prophecy. But it was in Jones he saw echoes of that past bravery, and the selflessness of his old friend. Of himself. With a harsh tongue and a bitter face, Jones pushed people away and Jenkins wasn’t going to challenge that coping mechanism. There was no point in it. Jones had not once, not even in the earliest days, failed them. Being a librarian meant more to the lad than it did anyone else, except perhaps Cassandra. But her desperation was born of a different hurt and she did not need the aide of his wisdom to overcome it. Her challenges she was concurring with every breath and every adventure just by setting her foot onto the path. Jones, Jones needed a steadier hand.

Little things, daily soft reminders, is what Jones needed. Inclusion, acceptance, _being cared for_ , in all the ways he’d never had. That would be what finally brought the boy around. Like an injured wild animal, Jones must be courted and respected and bribed into trust, slowly and steadily. Any hesitation or falter and he’d take it a sign his suspicions were correct and flee back into his own darkness, hiding but staring out longingly.

Jenkins wasn’t going to have that happen.

Giving all the Librarians rooms in the annex had been simple enough. But for Jones he made sure he went just a bit beyond a key to a door. The boy had no possessions to bring with him, just a laptop and a single bag of clothes. So Jenkins observed him for a few days and then started to slowly fill the room with things he thought he might like. A bed from England, a large four-poster with red velvet hangings that were outdated and unneeded here, but that he’d always liked was first. He’d brought it back with him ages ago from a house he kept still in the countryside and while it had a certain amount of sentimentality it was only because he’d owned it for four centuries. (The frame – the curtains were replaced, it wouldn’t do to give dust to the boy.) He’d caught the boy making more than one reference to that book series, about the magic school, and a quick glimpse at the books had shown the main character had one just like it. 

He’d peaked in just once to check on him, in those early days, and found Jones had pulled the curtains tight on the bed, making a little warm safe spot for himself in the much larger room, and Jenkins hoped it was what was needed.

A wardrobe had followed – no special reason other than he needed somewhere to put his clothes. Fluffy towels in another cabinet followed, along with a pair of warm slippers. The library could be chilled in an evening, all the stonework and tile. It wasn’t hard to find Australian brands, not with the backdoor, so Jenkins got a selection that looked promising and stocked the little bathroom just down the hall. Rather than rooming near the others, Jones had chosen a room several hallways away, so it was unlikely anyone else would know or care what he kept in there. So Jenkins filled it with all the little things he doubted Jones had ever had the time for but had probably seen all the commercials about. A quality razor, a nice shaving cream. Soaps and shampoo – even a couple options of bath salts, one of which Jenkins had made himself, to ease muscle strain. 

When he looked back a few weeks later every single one had been sampled but the only one nearly gone was the bath salt, which made him oddly happy. He’d never admit it, but Jenkins enjoyed taking care of his librarians, and making up more bath salt for Jones only took a few moments. He’d been planning on giving some to the others as well, but somehow it didn’t feel right to share something the boy clearly enjoyed. So the others got simple blends, without the extra oils, and Mr. Jones he gave his own special blend. 

The boy’s shoes had holes in them. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford new ones, being a world class thief meant he didn’t even need to pay for them, but Jenkins knew that sometimes it was hard to let yourself replace items. He’d grown up poor and waste was something Jones clearly didn’t do. Everything he had was quality, often top of the line, but he kept them well past the point most others would replace. Finding the same shoe in the boy’s size was not easy but Jenkins finally managed, and when he slipped the box into the wardrobe he made a note of what else needed replaced. While he certainly didn’t see the appeal of the clothing the lad chose, he chose it, and so Jenkins made a point of slipping a new item in at least once a week that he hoped would be accepted. Every single one made an appearance at least once, most became stables of the boy’s wardrobe, and it took actual effort not to smile when he saw something he’d personally selected being worn.

Government records were surprisingly easy to get and utterly depressing to read. As he’d suspected, Jones had no father listed on his birth certificate. His mother’s name was tied to a death certificate only four years later. Drug overdose was listed as the cause, and a little digging uncovered the police report. She’d died of a heroin overdose in their apartment and Jones had stayed with his mother’s body for three days before a neighbor had checked on them, mostly because the little boy had forgotten to turn the kitchen sink off after getting a cup of water and eventually the water had leaked into the apartment below. He hadn’t talked for two months, the reports said, and no tears either. But he’d been clutching his mother’s dead hand when the police arrived. He’d apparently known she was dead, according to the case worker’s notes, but he’d stayed anyway.

A series of foster homes had followed, none lasting long. Eventually a group home and then he’d dropped off their records at age 14. Just gone one night and no one had ever bothered to look for him.

There wasn’t much in the files, but Jenkins did find a name – a grandfather. The case worker had tried to get the man to take the boy in, but he’d refused. He ‘wasn’t good with kids’ was his excuse and part of Jenkins wanted to throttle the man. He refrained, but he did pay him a visit. The man was elderly now, a drunk, but he did have the one thing Jenkins was after. In a battered box on a shelf in the closet was a collection of things from his dead daughter’s apartment. Mostly junk, but buried in the bottom were a few photographs of a little boy, smiling, and a tired woman holding him. And in the front room of the house, fallen behind the tv cabinet, was a framed photo of the woman from before her troubles, presumably a graduation photo of some kind. Jenkins took the box and the photo, and paid the man in another box of full bottles.

He left the rescued box on the little table Jones had put in the hallway next to his door – something that now made sense given that in one of the few precious photos there’d been a little shelf next to the door into their apartment, and Jone’s had likely remembered his mother resting her shopping on it to open the door like in the picture. The framed photo he hung on the wall of the sitting room. 

Jones was missing for the next two days, the others complained bitterly about his whereabouts and what he might be stealing. Jenkins knew he’d never left his room.

He was adding a few pillows to the growing stack in the corner of the sitting room when Jones surprised him a few months later.

“So it is you.” The young man crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “You’re the one that’s been sneaking stuff in here.”

Jenkins straightened. “I am the caretaker.”

Jones clearly didn’t know what to do with that. “What, does that mean you get to buy me new underwear because that was a little hinky mate.”

Jenkins raised an eyebrow. “Considering that I put them in the wardrobe I’m not entirely sure how. It’s cloth, Mr. Jones. Nothing ‘hinky’ about it.”

Jones was standing stiffly and eyeing the caretaker with a weary distrust that was new. Jenkins didn’t like it. “When an old man buys me underwear they usually expect something for it.”

“Here I thought pederasty died out with the Romans.” 

Jenkins sighed at the confused but affronted expression on the thief’s face. “Bedding young boys and men in exchange for patronage was never my style, Mr. Jones. Nor am I inclined to start now. Rather, I have always been a caretaker, and as such I do on occasion look to the needs of those in my charge. You being one such. Besides, I’ve found it best if the fatherless in any crowd take care of one another. Seeing as you and I are the only two here, it simply made sense.”

“If that’s your way of calling me a bastard…” Jones stopped, realization dawning in his dark eyes. “Than you just called yourself one to.”

“Indeed. Arthur and I had a little club back in Camelot. We at least knew who our fathers were. Several of the others in the old crowd were not so lucky.” Jenkins fluffed the pillow he’d been holding and set it with the rest in the Turkish corner. “It was quite common then, but less common for anyone from such a background to reach knighthood. Arthur was the first to so openly accept the nameless. Talent built Camelot, Mr. Jones, not bloodlines. If anything disappoints in the modern world, it is that while single motherhood has reached acceptance, the insults continue.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Jones plopped backward into the sofa and stretched out. “Well if you’re going to decorate my apartment at least take a seat, actually have a proper conversation instead of you turning secret English butler on me.”

“I was going to offer to make tea.” Jenkins replied in a dry tone.

Jones snorted. “Not my speed, mate.”

“Pretend all you like, Mr. Jones, but I saw a box of Madura green on your counter.” 

He shrugged. “Green, not that stuff that English people like.”

“I happen to like green tea, I’ll have you know.” Jenkins smirked slightly. “Although we didn’t have tea in my youth, at least not tea as you know it. I still prefer a good rose hip and mint over what you get in a shop.”

“I can’t imagine Britain without tea.”

“Well, I hardly even qualify as British these days, oh the irony.” Jenkins used to feel oddly about that, not so much anymore. He belonged to the library, not a country, not anymore – and even the modern idea of country was rather foreign to him in all honesty. Loyalty was something given to an individual, or a family, not a collection of geographic boarders. “My place is here. And here is, everywhere really.” He took a careful seat on the armchair. “I apologize if my efforts have made you uncomfortable.”

Jones gave him a sideways glance. “Still not convinced you don’t have a motive, Jenkins. I mean, everybody’s got an angle. And I’ve snooped. The others aren’t getting all the special treatment, just real general stuff.”

Loneliness. Jenkins almost responded. Instead he gave into the impulse to genuinely smile. “Perhaps I just thought it was time someone showed you a little kindness, Mr. Jones. As someone once did me.”

“King Arthur?” Jones perceptively guessed.

“He hadn’t been a king for long at that point, but yes. Old enough to be a father but no intentions of acting like one.” Jenkins smiled sadly. “But he gave me a chance when others wouldn’t, let me prove my worth. He rewarded me for my attempts as well as my successes. He gave me and the others a home. Not a common thing to do for even the bastards of royalty. He was a good man, a good mentor.”

“I don’t need a mentor.”

“No but you could use a few good men around you, which you now have.” Jenkins leaned back slightly in the chair. “You aren’t alone now, Mr. Jones. And while you have little need for protection or tutelage as you see it, you do have the need for basic human kindness. We all do. The need to receive it, and the need to give it. Allow me the gift of giving with the sole purpose of easing your days. I have no other motive than that spring of joy that comes from the simple act of aiding another. I miss it.”

Jones shrugged. “Whatever. Just, for God’s sake, no more underwear. It wigged me out.”

“Alright.” Jenkins replied with a slow shrug of his own. 

“And I want the recipe for that bath salt.” Jones added, with a challenging glance. “It’s awesome.”

“Certainly. Do you have a piece of paper? I’ll write it out for you.”

“Really?” He seemed surprised but moved quickly, a little too quickly, towards a stack of paper left on the corner of his nightstand. “You’ll just give it to me?”

“I’m not about to go and open a toiletry shop. It’s hardly going to make my name and fortune.” Jenkins took the paper and carefully wrote out the directions. “It’s simple enough although I did have difficulty sourcing the almond oil last time.” Jenkins took the paper and wrote out the recipe and handed it back.

Jones stared down at it for a long tense moment. “I don’t know that anybody’s ever just given me something without wanting anything in return, let alone made something just for me.”

“Well I will endeavor to make it a common occurrence then.” Jenkins replied with a slight smirk. “If it shocks you into silence.”

Jones moved so fast Jenkins nearly fell out of his chair rather than catch the boy. His arms were shaking slightly as he hugged him, and Jenkins suspected it was more than the boys breath adding moister to his shoulder. 

“Thanks, mate.” The boy whispered finally, not letting go yet.

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Jones.” Jenkins replied, returning the hug and letting the boy bask in a little unconditional closeness. Heavens knows if he’d ever had any in his short and difficult life. “Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was debating on making this a series or a one-shot. The one-shot has lived on my computer for a year and not gotten any longer so here we go.


End file.
